


Malfoy's Manuscript (A Fragment)

by chantefable



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry, Gen, Hogwarts, Humor, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Teaching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:46:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chantefable/pseuds/chantefable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy becomes a Potions teacher, discovers true misery, and suffers through social niceties with the MLE career-climbing sweetheart with more good grace than he would have, if only he had enough energy for appropriate animosity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malfoy's Manuscript (A Fragment)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for HD Owlpost.

I was in my twenty-fourth year, and I had just become a Potions teacher at the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. I had a taste for magic and the fine art of brewing, and more than a little skill with mixing the ingredients. I had previously taken a fancy to the Dark Arts, which turned out to be much more cumbersome to renounce than I had assumed given the shocking ease and promptness with which one could end up with a branded arm and a manor turned into a torture chamber. The life I remembered most clearly was an ugly blur of pain and panic, followed by a limbo of frustration and more fear, and I was determined to make some new memories for myself. And so, finding myself in need of stable employment and brimming with desire to make my own way in the world, I boldly applied for the then vacant teaching position in Potions at my old school.

In good conscience, I cannot claim it was an altogether sensible decision.

The moment I walked through the gates on a warm day in July, I was congratulating myself on my good fortune; the grounds, the castle walls, the jangly cauldrons filling the supply closet in the dungeon: all of it put me in cheerful spirits. Indeed, neither the dry conversation with Headmistress McGonagall nor the tedious yet somehow uplifting staff meeting – first of many – managed to drive home how dreadful and significant my time at Hogwarts was going to be.

However, by the time Halloween was upon us, with all its chill and garish pumpkin colours, I was gaining a horrible and deep understanding of the hatred my godfather Severus Snape had harboured for his job.

The children were perplexing. Some of them likeable, some of them vexing, most of them manifesting in my life as a vague, nebulous blob of unfamiliar faces, inane questions and raised, sticky ink-stained hands. The older students formed a snarling, scowling blob of unpredictable activity, governed by such recreational nonsense as Quidditch, Hogsmeade and puppy love, and alternately refusing to acknowledge the tears and sleepless nights I put into their preparation for OWLs and NEWTs, sabotaging my efforts and accusing me of impeding their progress in Potions. Both blobs were driving me to distraction.

The sheer amount of paperwork was daunting in the extreme. The stream of lesson plans, study plans and study strategies was endless; tests, exams, curriculum this and that and, of course, reports on all of the above for weekly staff meetings were the milestones of my life, jammed into it at odd points by the cruel finger of fate. At first, the idea seemed reasonable, a measure of order in a magical chaos. But I had had my doubts by the end of August already, and school hadn't even started yet: the severe requirements I was faced with, and was expected to simply know and follow despite never having taught a day in my life and never receiving a day of training from any of the other colleagues, combined with their contradictions and the fact that somehow none of the years had previously followed the programme they were supposed to – which was now all my fault – made me feel more than a bit like a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher in times of the Dark Lord's curse, groping in the dark and hoping I would keep all my limbs. (I cannot say that this feeling ever left.)

Favouritism was also a nuisance. I cannot say I minded it all that much being on the receiving end; now, however, when I saw how Neville Longbottom could bloody do whatever the pranking Pixie he wanted with his Herbology course while I was subjected to constant evaluations, assessments, revisions and commissions about every point of the curriculum, every ingredient in stock, every thought in my head and every modulation of my voice regardless of the awfulness of the explosion inflicted upon the dungeons by a wilfully mismanaged cauldron – when I saw it all my faith in the world rapidly dwindled.

By the Yule Ball, the blinds had fallen from my eyes and I acknowledged that neither wit nor cunning, neither diligence nor courage were going to guide me through the maze of complex staff politics. It was all a bit too advanced even for someone who graduated from Voldemort's workshop of inner circle survival. I truly did not understand what was going on around me most of the time, so I simply tried to learn to take it in stride and accept that: no matter how many bottles of Pepper-up fuelled my rage while writing the reports, they were never going to be good enough; Professor Flitwick was the official Head of Slytherin but I had to do all the actual work curating the students because of mysterious reasons; there was a working group on Potions and Divination, members unspecified, which presented its revelations once a month and I'd better follow those to the letter in my classes while doing all the other things previously approved by McGonagall, otherwise tealeaves and disciplinary committees would be involved; the voting procedure was jinxed, so I just raised my hand every other meeting and tuned it all out; marking never went away. Never. There was always marking to do. Some nights I wasn't sure if I dreamt of marking or was marking in my sleep.

By Easter, I lost the inclination to regularly wash my already too-long hair, and by the time the exams came, the permanent scowl on my face completed my transformation into a blond incarnation of Severus Snape.

The next year found me stooped over my pudding at the teacher's table in the Great Hall as the Hat perched on the tiny heads of the dangerous dunderheads about to infest my classroom. In between discussions on Arithmancy textbooks and quality Ceylon tealeaves, a lazy, unenthusiastic gossip wormed itself into my ear: Harry Potter was coming back to Hogwarts.

In fact, Harry Potter had already come back to Hogwarts. Harry Potter needed to actually finish his seventh year and pass his NEWTs if he ever wanted to become an Auror, not just a Hit Wizard he had been all these years, and apparently, the time was now.

I spent a blissfully calm evening with only two fights, a case of bullying and a broomstick incident, and a suitably motivational lecture to first-years about the wonders of magic and not to break anyone or anything or have any meltdowns until Flitwick spoke to them the next day (no need to spoil the surprise by revealing his speech would be more of the same). It was only when I sat in my damp, drab rooms, finally alone with a listless magical fire and a glass of Firewhisky to keep me company, that I realised the awkward truth.

For his Auror career, Potter would need a NEWT in Potions.

He would probably need individual lesson plans, damn him to the Bugbears of hell.

Longbottom confirmed the individual plan nightmare the next morning as I was dragging Patricia Pimpernel, who'd attempted to skip class, to Trelawney's Tower. (While I supposed her protests were understandable, she needed to learn about the consequences of her choices.) Moreover, it turned out that Potter and his plans had been a known thing for a while. I couldn't muster the energy for indignation about being kept in the dark; instead, I quietly seethed like a spider weaving its poisonous web. After a full day of classes, I came to my room to find Potter loitering in the corridor, and regretted that the poor lighting prevented him from appreciating the malice on my sullen, haggard face.

Potter's features were earnest, and his handshake was firm. There was a gleam of laughter in his eyes as he spoke. I half-listened to his jovial narration of his career troubles, if one can call them that; while I cast an Alohamora and pushed the door open, he was gesturing wildly and speaking of his unblossomed-but-definitely-there love for Potions, as if we were developing some sort of rapport.

Quite frankly, I don't think he appreciated the depth of my hatred for him and his inevitable individual study sessions just then. Which showed just how much genuine Auror skill he had. Showing him into an armchair, I desperately wondered why the man wouldn't stay a Hit Wizard and not go into a profession he didn't have the knack for. And spare me the trouble of trying to teach him.

I made the mistake of offering him tea and was forcibly dragged down memory lane, Potter clearly projecting some of his unresolved issues with Remus Lupin on me and already under a delusion we were to be friends.

I thought about the test the sixth-years had to write the next day and had no energy to protest the nonsense.

By the second cup, Potter was all teeth and jokes, convinced I was listening. I mentally composed a term's worth of study load for him while he attempted to engage me with a story about a Mooncalf in Manchester. The moment he bit into a biscuit, I rattled it off, a Quick Quotes Quill scratching into a sheet of parchment with macabre efficiency. The moment I shoved the sheet in Potter's hands and watched his face fall, the pain in my chest eased a little. I managed a sinister smile which caused Potter's face to contort in a lopsided grin. More hand-shaking, followed by other aborted gestures of affection as I guided Potter to the door. In the end, I somehow agreed to an introductory session at the Hog's Head Saturday night, which, in retrospect, combined with Potter's smug smirk and aggressively twinkling eyes, was perilously close to a date.

Well, I decided, one would need confirmation that it was, indeed, a strategy. Perhaps there was a wily Auror lurking in Potter after all.


End file.
